


benediction

by drakefeathers



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 04:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakefeathers/pseuds/drakefeathers
Summary: after the endgame, after his showdown with Batman, Jason is visited by the one person he never meant to hurt.





	benediction

**Author's Note:**

> me: what is this word document from 2013 on my computer, titled "jaysadsss"  
> me: ah I see :(

Jason would know what to do if it was Bruce. Or Dick. If it was Barbara or even the replacement he hasn’t met yet, he would know.

But it isn’t any of them. That’s _Alfred_ on his surveillance feed, waiting patiently outside the door of his safehouse and holding a Tupperware container.

Jason can’t even believe Alfred found the place. He was careful to cover his tracks. This safehouse was mean to stay, well, safe. Looks like today will be a moving day.

He can’t just ignore Alfred. This is a bad neighbourhood, he could get mugged standing out there. Plus it’s _freezing_ outside and Alfie’s a stubborn, stubborn old man who’ll wait out there for hours if he has to. He could get sick—he could get pneumonia, and die. He could. And that’s one death Jason won’t be responsible for.

“What do you want?” Jason asks, opening the door a crack.

“Master Jason,” Alfred admonishes. “I believe I taught you better manners than that. That is no way to treat someone who comes to your door.”

_It is when they’re uninvited_ , Jason doesn’t dare say. And really, considering that he’d greet anyone else with a gun to the forehead, this is about as polite as he gets.

Letting the door swing open, he sighs and rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“And yet, here I am.” Alfred raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Now, are you going to invite me inside?”

“Listen, if you came here thinking you could convince me to make amends with Bruce, you can turn around right now. It’s not happening.”

He’s in no mood to deal with this right now. He’s exhausted and _aching_. Still covered in the dark bruises he walked away with after that building exploded—though not nearly as bad as the other time, years ago, when he didn’t walk away at all. He wouldn’t be so sore if he gave himself a few more days to recover before putting on the helmet again, but taking even one night off can lose him important territory.

“I am not here to talk about him, Master Jason. This is about you. I will refrain from even mentioning his name, you have my word.”

“Fine,” he relents through clenched teeth, stepping aside and gesturing impatiently. He already regrets this. “ _Fine_. You can come in… for a couple minutes.”

The moment Alfred steps inside Jason is suddenly too aware—and too embarrassed—of the dust and the general mess of scribbled papers and dirty clothes and tools, and the dried blood he still hasn’t cleaned off the tiny table from when he stitched up the bleeding hand he got when his gun misfired during his showdown with Batman.

He misses Alfred a lot in times like that, when he’s sick or hurt and has to take care of himself. He never realized how much he took the old man for granted.

Jason nods at the container of cookies in Alfred’s hands. “Are those…”

“Your favourite. Or rather, what used to be your favourite—forgive me, I don’t know if your tastes have changed.”

Jason shakes his head, accepting them gratefully. “Thanks,” he says. It’s all he can dare say, with the lump that’s formed in his throat.

Alfred sits down in the single rickety chair beside what passes as Jason’s kitchen table. He doesn’t look at the mess around him, at the weapons or the incriminating plans tacked onto the walls, he doesn’t look at anything but Jason. 

Jason lingers by the wall—awkwardly, warily keeping his distance. He has his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans and slouches in the way Alfred always scolded him for.

“D’you… D’you want some tea or something?” He doesn’t think he has any options that are up to the old man’s standards, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t wish to be a bother.” That’s Alfred-speak for ‘ _sit your ass down, young man_.’

There’s only one chair in the place and Alfred’s using it, so Jason pulls up a wooden crate from the corner of the room. It’s shorter than a chair and sitting down on it makes him feel smaller. Younger. He doesn’t like it.

“So, uh. Say what you came here to say,” Jason takes a deep breath to brace himself. “Get it over with.”

Alfred takes a few moments before he speaks. It’s surreal to Jason—he’s never seen the man unsure about anything before. “After your death, I was left with so many regrets. It all happened so quickly—one day Master Bruce went chasing after you to Ethiopia, and the next…” He looks so sad, so tired and _old_ that Jason has to glance away. “I regretted that I never had the chance to say goodbye, or tell you just how proud I was to have seen you grow.”

All Jason can do is laugh hoarsely, once. Quiet enough that it might be mistaken for him clearing his throat. It leaves an odd, hollow feeling in his chest.

“You still proud?” he asks, and it feels like a joke. The worst he’s ever told. Of _course_ he knows the answer.

Alfred just frowns at him sadly. That’s fine. As long as he doesn’t have to hear it out loud.

Jason thinks about the people he’s killed. About the horrible, disgusting men he killed just last night. All the unforgivable things he’s done that Alfred doesn’t even know about, can’t even guess. And he’s not ashamed. He knows that Bruce and Alfred hope he is, deep down, but he’s _not_. If he had the time he could sit here and tell Alfred exactly what each of them had done to deserve it and why he wouldn’t hesitate to do it a second time.

The most frustrating part is that he’s pretty sure Alfred would simply sit there and listen until he finished, and then tell him to come home.

Alfred places his hand gently over Jason’s on the table. Jason nearly flinches at the contact, he’s not used to it anymore.

“I’m worried about you,“ Alfred says. “This… mission you are undertaking, this path of vengeance, is _dangerous_. I don’t want to have to bury you a second time.”

“I won’t ask you to,” Jason replies shortly, dragging his hand away. Boiling anger surges in his veins, the kind that’s lingered in him since he dragged himself out of that green water, but maybe even before that. The kind he’s been trying to control and _use_ instead of letting it take him over. This time it’s almost too much for him to handle—it rushes through his head, makes his hands shake—and he stands up, kicking the crate aside. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, showing up here. Buttering me up with cookies. You can’t just bribe me and expect me to apologize to him and act like a good kid. It won’t happen, because I’m _not_ that kid anymore.”

He knows he’s being cruel, but he can’t help it. It hurts less, to push Alfred away.

The old man is steadily calm, even after that outburst. “You’re correct, Master Jason. You aren’t a child. You’re an adult. And being able to see you grown into a man, after I had long accepted I would never get the opportunity, makes me happier than I can say.”

Jason turns away, clenching his eyes shut and waiting for the green-tinged rage to subside, until all he feels is empty and tired. “You… You should go, Alfie. I have a lot of work to do.” He spares the details, though Alfred knows what he means. It’s impossible not to. The helmet is sitting there on the shelf as evidence, and there are guns and knives scattered on every surface. “It was good to see you, but I don’t think you should come around here again. Please… Just don’t.”

It’s just too hard.

In front of the door, Alfred turns around one last time and says, “No matter what you may believe, no matter what you’ve done, you will always be welcome back home.”

Jason shuts the door. He leans against it, breathing hard, and slides to the floor when his shaking legs give way.

He cries like he hasn’t since he emerged from the Lazarus pit and found out Bruce let the Joker live, like he hasn’t since the night he stared at those pictures of the new Robin and realized how replaceable he was. Being betrayed by the man he loved most in the world had cut him to the bone as painfully as the Joker’s crowbar.

But this is worse. This time, he’s the betrayer, just as bad as Bruce. This time the only person he can hate is himself.


End file.
